I become seas of fire but
It does not melt snow;
I melt hearts and I brand
Lovers, with words and titles
bereft and sold – the highest bidders
swallowing me in laughs.
phoenix girlThere is a mother inside of me,
calling the ink and the summers
to blanket the cardinals nesting
within the embers of her smile.
Never have I thought myself maternal
(I care for my wailing spine
with the distaste of smoker lungs
atop a writhing beauty’s lips)
but perhaps our birdsong is related
because she sings the same, sweet tune as I
but from the comfort of a frostbite
far deeper than my own.
There is a mother inside of me,
and I do not question why or how…
but I’ll nest in her regardless,
beneath the embers of her smile.
Who knows… perhaps she is a phoenix.
but you're not rabbits, and I'm not AliceI made a wish today with witch-made bells and his green shop dust.
I visualized you – Christmas time and your image painted in my iris, as if setting goals and dates to memorize… from where you stood, you were angels and Christ rolled up into one; the shadow of the window nativity and tangible hope.
God knows I wanted to drink it in, until my eyes were ash and my lungs were you.
I know why Alice went down the rabbit whole; this “what if” disease consumes us all.
we all fall downI.
my throat did taste
in my eyes
(if only I'd some kerosene
to set these lies afire)
they desired me
my crows to hide...
but they made night
and night did make
a critical November;
radiation killing cancer
a stem for you,
a thorn for me;
a briar mind
to hide unseen
and two cents guessing
.I beat my head into the glass shop windows – as if that would knock you out of me – clutching at my heart to assure this aching chest that I still live. Perhaps, in a way, it was the motivation I needed to keep punching pulses into my wrist. (I ache more acutely than any time before, or for any person before.)
I know this is a cheesy love-thing (one I thought I’d never write, and therefore can’t find it in me to name), but I can’t help but fill you into every single word and page - and therefore need to ink you out. I need to breathe you, need to tell you… tell you that sometimes, just sometimes, I can’t help but hate you – and love you – for ripping me open to bleed him out; and I’ve tried to grip at the scars that see him differently. But he will never be you, and I’m starting to doubt that I’ll ever feel whole, while I marvel over not why I still breathe, but how, when sometimes all
InfiniteWe’d make a beautiful constellation,
You and I –
shivering galaxies that may implode
but who keep expanding,
still hiding in gravitational lenses
of sheer splendor -
a thousand and one stars;
we could wish for personals
or maskless parades
without crippling facades-
not nameless but known.
You and I,
we could be brighter
than the sun.
another morning, another nightMaybe ingesting you
wouldn’t be so bad:
my terms, my pace..
but dear, this is a thunder-belly,
filled to brim with watered tears
and static light –
cumulonimbus ten drops away
from the greenstick fracture
that comes when you’re pushed
in from two
Him. His. Mine. Yours.
I’ve been invaded – degraded –
until scum were these veins
and I kept losing hands in
Well I’m tired of poker
(of thieves after pearls
and of pearls begging thieves)
so please let my heart remain
undiscovered — a child’s lover—
a psychologist to the lonely faces
inside the lonely morning
comets in my head againThere are bruises on my legs again.
Maybe I tried too hard for the stars - struck hemispheres of dreaming too big - while I count one, two, three, four, five shiners on my legs, ten lookers on each arm (your jointed peals of rage) and, probably, forty-four on my heart – though it’s not like I ever counted the number of times you beat me down, before.
It never did matter if I was enough for the 16 years - or for the Escitalopram - because I was never a star jumper that could trade in comets for the cratered, disfigured life of meteors.
There are bruises on my legs again, and I think I should stop dreaming.
I envy NeverlandShe becomes Tinkerbelle,
weaving coffins with her toes
and stealing kisses from magpie crows,
every breath heaving lungs
of ash & featherdust.
No one believes –
death keeps her like a secret
pulled behind gums and marbled teeth,
white-knuckled and bonedry –
so she chokes on bible verses
and desires angel faith;
but Peter Pan’s with Wendy
and lost boys, well, are lost,
and I am shredding pages;
it’s the way in which she writes
and the ease in which I burn.
I will. (warning for prose,but mostly description)I.
I will rouse myself from casket mornings, and I will flex the 11 (or was it 12?) muscles in my mouth to form a smile—however painful. I will keep it there… because kindness bandages wounds in the best of ways. I will sip the horizon from my coffee, while weaving fairytales—without ever thinking that I’ve not the innocence anymore… because I’ll make it not matter. I will.
And I will forget him. I will… because ghosts only appear if you look at them, and he’s loved my nightmares—my tears—long enough. And because I’ve haunted myself long enough.
I will allow myself to feel human again, because I’ll remember that rain rids filth, but I’ll try to keep myself wishing less for forgetting-tsunamis… less for escapes just because of prints engrained in roots and soul. So I’ll forget his fingers straying past my heart—the way muscles seized, and cardiac arrest knew betrayal—and the way
my requiem, your gospelyou send higher than Everclear,
until i see jesus, wearing
salvation clouds and frowns
you send higher,
until i am helium and spaceships
bound for Sol or Vega,
burning through addiction craters
faster than euphoria.
Mankind likes it brokenMadness slipped inside of me like a hand beneath my blouse—thieving and too truthful—while i find myself in fetals, wondering where Autumn went… crushed beneath someone’s shoes, as i feel crushed beneath these memories?
i’m nobody’s treasure (just a no one in a body), and though this mouth is paralyzed, i scream these words ten fingers, to grasp at everything i’ve lost. But what’s the point? i rise from moondust graves when the sun peaks my head in halos; and i hope, and i pray, that this day is one of life… but every time, i am sent to death in stars and in the shadows of the dark. And i fear i’ll only be disasters, thrown down the stairs ahead of life, while i try to learn to fall in ways that will not break my neck, my arm—my spirit…
but every ‘wild’ needs a ‘broken,’ and i’m afraid He’s beat you to it; mankind just likes it broken.
LandslideYearning for birds –
the reminder of anchors in
each half-moon cresent
so lovingly carved into my soles.
And you play hopscotch in my veins -
the ones forbidden now to bleed -
until I am beaten blue and flat
but there are sparrows in my brain
among cerebral cortex clouds,
and that should be enough...
only it isn’t.
I misspelled our love, and that's where we went...I always thought I was a sparrow, nesting in tomorrows like the moon would drop from her orbit and gift me firmer ribs. I thought men and love would fall from dimples and roses, but I found out they drop much like you: unceremoniously and jumbled. They break wings… and god, the sound… but I guess they sing as they work, and that’s got to be well-meant.
So I fondled November like it fondled me, caught it early in the middle of snow angels and hayrides so it could feel the unexpected earthquake of ‘molested’. The world strung me from those letters, giving the past not only a face, but a name, as it bent gravity over horizons ‘til I could only see his toes. I puked a watercolor of someone else’s impact, and maybe that’s the worst: not knowing if I’m the one moving, or if you’re still writhing inside me like worms and April rain.
PruningThe year is silent in the cul-de-sac
you called my heart, but I am empty
with an appetite
for smoke or charring bites of lightning.
They think it's beautiful;
this hollow - they wish upon it,
tie splints of charity because it's hope,
but they are marooned starlings
all red as the Midwest sun
and nomads in her sand.
I am tired
of being liked for the clarity of my broken
(though maybe if you stopped looking at me
like I was wounded, I could start closing up),
for the helpfulness of my tongue,
or the perspective of death-bound eyes.
But there is no pride in holding the Self
together, in blowing moonward kisses
to gods, "please take me away,"
and truly wishing to fall asunder.
They don't know. They don't know,
they don't know...
like barbs in a sea-weathered throat,
eyes too dry to grasp the fault
but the mouth... a sinner through and through.
They don't know what it's like to wilt -
then be worshiped for the way your flower fell.
prophet-bone(You speak of the sea in colors and ash,
but I never felt condemned)
deserts crack your lips,
spilling sand past snake-bite hands
while you preach of how god brings rain.
I have to wonder when the last time
was that you had a solid drink of air.
Or perhaps you are too full:
hot air balloons to journey up to ceilings
where you spill horizon eyes to be.
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,
the half cup of
peppermint ice cream
sitting in your freezer
for weeks, and cat litter.
He won’t eat anymore,
but there are
piles and piles
of dirty dishes
sitting in the sink.
before your eyes.
You can wrap
your whole self
around his tiny bones
You can hold him
like he used to hold you
all those years ago.
And you are angry.
You try to find
You hate doctors,
and you hate
You have to force yourself
to stop crying,
This is the one person
who’s always had faith
He’s read every poem
and hoarded every award
you ever won.
You ignore statistics,
9729 kilometers away, to be exact.i have these bones like flowers-
fragile and finely plucked,
these lily stargazers
are kissing ocean beds,
making love to sirens
for a taste of her
i want to tape maps to my limbs-
throw caution to the wind
as i gather up
every love letter receipt,
from every false attempt
i ever wrote her
& forget for just a moment
that even still
she does not love me.
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience in
the holy water of my wrists,
I carve hearts from empty
paper for my galaxyboy
with stars written in his skin,
and I swallow moths to
muffle the emptiness and
help me fly away.
( 4/04/2014 )Everything here is so fucking
loud and this dragon eyed girl
doesn’t feel like filtering
She doesn’t want to answer
the phone today, either, so-
she stuffs her ears with
her mouth with new
as she kisses
socks now too
their mixed &
Real ladies wouldn’t
dare step outside
wearing one pink
& one green sock,
but she’s no lady.-
A red lipped hermit
holding a knife to her
own throat, screaming-
the sun and
the rain on her face
for the first time
Oh poets with your
pretty words and
this is what true
NaPoWriMo: Day 10 Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,
your knees q u a k e d like that Jenga piece
that buckled just before your whole foundation
& no matter
how many times
I've restarted your heart,
one would think
I'd grow tired,
I'm still writing you in poetry
(in the most inappropriate of places.)
You forced yourself beneath my blades
& my fingertips,
Licking unstable knees,
you were death on my tongue:
angry apricot eyes, unforgivable sin
scaring my limbs &
haunting my dreams.
& I'd still try to save your fucking life.
FingertipsYou tried to wind up the rusty clock,
but it shattered in your hands
and now you look at me with spiralling eyes
because you know I'm as broken as the springs in your hands.
please don't forget i'm trying
The wind in the park brushed away your inhibitions
so I gave you a map of the people we saw
with their eyes in gold and their hands in green.
That's when you pixelated, that's when I saw
your rain streaked fingers clutch the disposable lighter,
and burn away the faces I'd seen for you.
why didn't you glow
The water on your palm seeped into our core
so we walked on fragile wood for days or weeks
but imagining safety never saved us
and remembering failure shattered our footsteps.
start stop start stop you never
White walls kept your pulse out
but I can still hear your whisper from the broken clock
steady as the time it used to count
but my ash-stained fingertips are streaked with secrets.
Don't worry about me. I'll find my way out.
just don't turn out the lights.
MetamorphosisI wrote you a letter -
tried to phrase a suicide note,
but instead came out
with words that butterfly with hope
and blades that divide decisions
and not wrists. It spoke of love,
of that quiet desperation that I feel
when I am waiting for you to meet my glance,
your averted eyes poised with concentration. It spoke
of how long I waited to build a lifetime
with you, and how in many ways I still am.
It spoke of promises that balloon as uncontrollably
from my chest as panic sometimes drums from
my feet. But mostly,
it spoke of the destructive power of trust;
moment by moment, you destroy my barriers. I
mutilate beyond repair.
I don't just harm myself. I always hurt other people.
A bit, yes. Or, rather, a rough month.
I should be better soon... it's just all the little things piling up, and I usually don't even know what I become upset over, so it's really hard to help myself when I don't even know the problem.
Thank you for caring. You always make me smile, for sure! So that's a victory within itself